Chances
by Blasen
Summary: Connor had met Alfred five times in his life.


**1. The first time Connor had seen America, was directly after Achilles death.**

Connor had been at a loss when his mentor died, the man that had been a better father than his one by birth, the man who taught him everything he knew. Connor seeked refuge, and while he appreciated the care of the other villagers, he only wished to be alone. He needed time long enough that he could stop the stinging in his heart; to stop remembering the loss of everyone he held dear. His mother, who died protecting him. Kanen'tó:kon, who died from his own hand. Achilles, who he never truly got to say goodbye too.

There was death, there would always be this battle. Achilles had made him very aware of this, and while Connor hated to see this happen, he knew that even he could not change. And yet Connor could find no excuse for himself, even with this knowledge. He could have tried harder. He could have pulled his mother out of that fire. He could have cut Kanen'tó:kon in a less fatal area. He could have been home more for Achilles. He could have. He knows he could have. He _should_ have. He pushed his legs to carry him away from the manor, away from that beckoning tombstone. He ran until he couldn't breathe, ran until his skin turned cold and his lungs burned like torches. Ran until he could no longer see his failures in the deepest corners of his mind.

When Connor finally let his legs rest, when he stumbled over a branch and fell into the grass, hands trembling and body heaving, he wept. He no longer had any strength left to stand, and he didn't care how long he would stay in forest, as long as he could find peace. As long as he could make sense. He laid there, for how long he could not tell, before there was prickling sensation in the back of his mind, his skills coming into view, urging him to move.

A hand came out, and Connor grabbed it, spinning the other's body around and bringing the person to the ground, his knee pressed tightly against this persons chest. He half expected it to be Father Timothy, or perhaps a British Officer who had recognized him from past exploits, but Connor was all wrong. Beneath him was a young man, hair like the familiar farm fields of his childhood, eyes like the sky. There was a short moment where Connor stilled, suspicious, but fell backward, his back hitting the grass once more. The man got to his feet.

The man offered a hand out to him, "Get up, Ratonhnhaké:ton." Connor felt a electric pulse throughout his body._ He knew his name._ Connor felt something stir within him, bright flashes of past memories. He stood, legs still trembling. The man nearly held him up, keeping a steady hand on Connor's arm, supporting the weight. He was surprisingly strong, and Connor sensed something deep within himself, that he knew this person. That this man was._..important._

"Who are you?" Connor asked, finally having the ability to speak. The man smiled, and placed a comforting a hand on the assassin's other shoulder.

"A friend. A long overdue friend." The man let both his hands drop as Connor regained his barrings. The assassin shook his head, his thoughts scattering.

"I don't even know who you are." Connor wanted a name, a name in which to remember. The man smiled again, his eyes catching with the fading sun.

"You can call me Alfred. Or Bhanuprasad." Those words echoed in Connor's head. An educated man; an educated man on Connor's own people. A name in his own language. Connor stood, looking at Bhanuprasad, seeing the way his back was arched meant military training, finding the light traces of overworked fabric in the wrinkles on Alfred's shirt. Seeing the way those eyes never ended. And for a split moment; this man reminded him of Achilles. The way his shoulders were spread, the way his lips were twitched up in that same small smirk, the way the boy spoke. He felt a sweep of pain wash over his heart. And then curiosity.

"You shouldn't have that name." Connor said brusquely, crossing his arms. Something flashed in Alfred's eyes, something so quick Connor didn't have enough time to know what.

"I'm more your kind than you know, Assassin." Connor looked at Alfred much closely, trying to judge just how he acted, trying to understand what the odds would be if Connor went in for a hit. They seemed to be in his favor, but then again, looks were far too deceiving. There was a glint in Alfred's eye now, a small display of a smile. He reached out, putting a hand on Connor's shoulder.

"I need you in this fight, Connor." The man turned to walk away, a sharp pitched whistle sprouting from his mouth. He had called his horse, and Connor had all but the time to spin around as Alfred mounted. He opened his mouth to speak; searching for the right words, searching to understand. Bhanuprasad stared hard at him now, any trace of comfort and innocence lost. Connor nearly forgot to breathe.

"And if there's anything I can do to save our people, the you better believe that I'll be there." His voice was like a shiver running along Connor's spine, strong and hard and dangerous. Bhanuprasad spurred his horse, taking off with grace a man so young should not have. Stealing Connor's thoughts like no one could have. And building the courage in his heart like no one ever had.

* * *

**2. The second time was on one of Connor's missions in New York.**

Connor was bleeding. There was a distinct pain on his left forearm, and the skin on his elbow had all but been scarped off. The stinging proved to do little affect his abilities, but hindered him enough to the point where he had to patch the wounds. He was racing down the hall, fleeing from the onslaught of soldiers, jumping over a table with the help of his one good hand, he tried to disperse in the crowd. Tried. The civilians noticed the dripping red, his obvious choice of attire, and the guards yells in the distance. They backed away from him, offering no coverage at all. He cursed, pulling out an arrow and hitting one close soldier, but didn't have enough time for the others. He ran again, dipping through the ally ways and tracing the edges of the city in an attempt to confuse them, or at least buy himself enough time to dress his injuries.

He clasped his hand on his arm, blocking the blood from pouring out. Connor twisted again, finding himself in a new alley, he saw the opportunity of a hiding spot. Wells. They worked wonders when you truly needed them. He dipped himself in, which now was a little difficult. Holding himself on the rim with one hand as the guards ran the other direction, he waited. And thought. He was not allowed to take many weapons on this operation. Only a bow, which was now empty. Poison darts, which he had run out of. And a well crafted knife, which was stolen. He was out of weapons and out of time.

He waited until they no longer scouted and decided to check the other side of town. It turned quiet, the villagers passing now without being bumped into from the rush of the soldiers. Connor no longer felt any threat, so he heaved himself out. He moved his fingers along his forearm to check for further injury before pulling several supplies out of his pouch. He dressed the worst part, a small but deep cut from the blade of an axe. It probably would have taken his whole arm, if Connor had not moved as quick as he had. The assassin pulled the hood from his head, hair dripping with sweat. It was hot, a little too unbearably. His legs ached from the severe mission, but it was a blessing that everything went according to plan.

He wondered if they would ever catch on to his bribing of the city callers. The settlers certainty weren't known for their intelligence. He pushed his dark hair back, flicking the sweat away from his forehead. He needed rest. And it was at least a two day journey from here back to the manor, or at least back into the Homestead. He couldn't walk all night for that, especially when the soldiers were patrolling the river lines again. Someone had leaked where Connor had been frequently seen, informing the guards and collecting quite the sum of cash.

He would have to deal with that. Sometime, as for now, he only wished to sleep. Rest sounded foreign to him now. His body was exhausted, completely used and _burning_, but his thoughts were rampant. Challenging him to move. To continue. He almost wanted to ignore, to let himself find a nice shade tucked away in the city ruins, to sleep for hours. But he couldn't allow that. Not when he could still do so much more. Not while he still had strength left. He stood, taking a few steps to walk out of the shadows of the alley, before a hand sprung out, grabbing him by the wrist, pulling him back towards the well and into the darkness. Connor reacted so quickly, he nearly forgot he was moving at all.

His own hand burst up, taking the attackers fingers and twisting them around, bringing his elbow down hard onto the person's arm, hearing a faint muffle of pain. He spun his body, his hands ready to draw blood, the power rushing from his skin. It was blocked. Blocked by the hilt of a knife pressed against Connor's skin, and the tight grip Connor had on the attackers wrist had disappeared, the man pulling his hand away quickly, almost knowingly. When Connor finally looked to see who this man was, he was shocked to find Alfred once more, gripping onto his fingers in pain.

"Bhanuprasad?" Connor's voice rang out before he could stop himself. Alfred rolled his eyes, shaking his hand from the sting Connor must have left in his palm. The assassin stared, a thousand questions, a thousand possibilities swarming in his mind. Alfred pulled Connor towards him, pushing both of them further into the shadows, away from the near by lantern.

"There are five soldiers after you, where they other three are I don't know. They separated after you ducked into that well, but they sure as hell are still looking." Alfred said quickly, in a slightly hushed voice.

Connor nodded, fully understanding. And he knew the threat of danger. Knew the pain of being captured. Knew what they would do to him. But his mind went elsewhere, practically feeling Alfred's very existence._The smell of oak trees, from Connor's childhood. The light brush of wildflowers and smokey ashes from his village. The sharp cry of an eagle with full spread wings. The feel of the forest surrounding him, the true essence of a woodsrunner. Gusts of snowy winds and a clear night sky...And then all he could smell was hard metal, the feel of gunpowder twirling around him, the scent of death and blood radiating off his skin. Connor backed away, half of his body illuminated by the lantern, the other half still in the darkness. He wasn't sure how to feel. He wasn't sure why this man was following him, if he had been following him, and why he was so different from the rest._

"Why are you here? Why are you even helping me?" Connor asked, looking at Alfred, searching for answers he already knew he would never find. The other huffed, running a hand through his wheat hair.

"Trying to keep you from getting killed, that's what." There was slight agitation there, which Connor decided he did not like hearing in Alfred's voice. It didn't suit him. There was a sudden yell, and quick footsteps heading in their direction. Alfred pulled the assassin by the collar back into the shadows, bracing him against the wall. They both stilled, muscles tightened, waiting for what was probably another attack. The soldiers never came into the other side of the ally way, but instead ran past them to split up a rioting group of citizens. Alfred breathed out in relief, letting Connor go, the assassin's shirt now ripped slightly from force. Connor shook his head in irritation; none of his questions were being answered. This entire situation didn't make any sense.

"You need to tell me what's going on!" Connor snapped, taking a step forward to Alfred. He shook his head, as if debating with himself whether or not to share information. Connor took it as a sign of mistrust, but also as an incentive. Alfred took a step, pulling a knife out of his pocket. He held it out to Connor, an concerned and serious expression on his face; and Connor desperately wanted to see Achilles' smile on Alfred again. Wanted something other than urgency and unreadable expressions.

"Better watch your back, and keep a knife in hand." It was a simple gesture. A simple sentence. And somehow Connor thought those were possibly one of the most important words he'd ever hear in his life. There was something in the back of Bhanuprasad's voice, something that brought all of Connor's focus to the surface. To something dark, and chilling, and dangerous. To something protective and injuring. To the thought and purpose of Connor's very existence. Alfred turned to leave, pulling a dark hood over his head, and for a moment, Connor thought of them fighting together. It was unexpected, and a highly unwelcome thought, but for some reason, some far back idea in his mind: he knew they already were. He watched the man ride off, and hearing the incoming steps of the soldiers, Connor slid back into the darkness, moving through the shadows until he reached the fence line and made a break for it.

* * *

**3. The third time was in Ollie's Tavern.**

Connor decided to travel back towards The Homestead. Being constantly scouted by military officers, both British and Patriots, had forced him with no other choice if he was to have a day of recuperation. While the assassin believed that time wasted was just as good as a death sentence, he did need the rest. Needed the musky air of the tavern and possibly a light spirit in his hand before he could continue. He also believed that a man not at his finest could not attempt to achieve the finest of wishes.

He made good time, covering much ground during the night, even with the threat of wolves attacking. He had Alfred's knife still, proving to be a much better weapon than he ever expected, and had retrieved his other items from the store in New York. The weather aided him more than anything else; little cloud coverage accompanied by a nice breeze made the constant running rather enjoyable.

Upon reaching the inn, he had assumed several of the other villagers would also be there, considering how often they liked to enjoy the alcohol and conversation. It was, much to Connor's dismay, that only a small few were there this evening. It was questionable, but Connor knew they had other things to attend to, and assassin could not blame them. He rarely ever came home, let alone to the tavern. He was welcomed in, and waved to Ollie, as he walked towards the counter.

"Connor! It's about time you stopped by!" Corrine said joyfully, patting Connor on the back. Ollie returned from somewhere in the back room, a pair of large mugs in her hands. Her face lit up, giving one over to her husband.

"My, what a surprise this is." She laughed, handing the other over to Connor; who refused kindly. He wasn't much of a drinker. Corrine laughed at that, and asked Ollie to give it to Lance when he stopped by later. It had been so long since he'd ever had laughter like this— comfort like this. Corrine took a rather large sip out of his mug, looking over at Connor.

"What have you been up to, Connor? You've been gone for months!" The innkeeper asked with a chuckle, setting his drink down on the counter. Connor had not much to say, despite his constant operations, despite his killings and savings, he had nothing to share that would make... adequate conversation. So the assassin decided to change the fields a little bit.

"I'm more interested in what you have been doing. How is life around here? Anymore troubles?" He knew that it wasn't typical conversation, especially on a night that he should most likely be sleeping for, but he wanted this. Wanted to know that they were doing fine without him. Wanted to know that they were happy. Corrine didn't notice the change in topic, and answered almost too joyfully.

"Things have really been great, to be honest. Ollie and I are getting a steady income, the people we serve are happy. I have everything I ever wanted," The man talked with gratitude in his voice, and Connor couldn't help but smile slightly at that. Ollie walked back to them, grabbing Corrine's arm. There was an expression on her face that Connor had not seen in a long time. It was fear. Pure, unabashed, unmistakable fear.

"Corrine. Corrine, he's here again." Ollie grasped onto her husbands sleeve, voice ringing with anxiety. She pointed over to a man in a dark jacket, the hood covering his eyes. Corrine looked towards Connor, reeling his wife to stay behind the counter. The assassin felt his fingers itching, felt the rush of blood in his veins.

"What happened?" Connor asked, his tomahawk suddenly getting very heavy. Corrine held his wife's hand tightly.

"That man over there killed three British troops a couple weeks back." Connor found no harm in this. Ollie decided to share the rest of the information, which would make their obvious fear very expected.

"He was wearing the Patriot colors, but he killed four of his own men. Point blank, Connor. Right in front of the entire inn. He didn't offer an explanation. And not an hour later there was three more British soldiers after him," Ollie drew in a shuddering breath, "He was captured. They took all of his weapons. He should have been done for. He destroyed them with his hands._ Just his hands_." Ollie's grip on her husband increased. Connor blinked. He knew that certain situations could confuse what a person had seen. It had happened to him far too many times.

"Are you sure?" The assassin asked quickly. He felt like he was being watched. That feeling never came without repercussions. Ollie nodded her head, swallowing loudly. Connor took a step away, about to walk over to the hooded character on the far side of the tavern. His hands started to itch again. Corrine grabbed his arm, halting him if for a moment.

"You don't have the full story," The innkeeper's voice was hushed, "He asked for you, Connor. After all the men were killed he asked for_ you_." Corrine let his hand drop, looking at Connor with an expression the assassin could not understand. Connor didn't understand anything at this point. A man hooded, and shaded. A man who killed enemies, and his own. A man who should have died, but lived.

Maybe it was another assassin, was Conner first thought. Someone who was trained to kill, someone who was trained to confuse. It could have all been a trick. Ollie could have seen what this man had _wanted_ her to see. And then Connor took a closer look; seeing the worn stitch work of the fabric, and the way the jacket molded. He felt like he had seen it before. Maybe on one his missions. But, then again, it looked an awful like— Connor would never have time to register the thought.

The man had been sitting at one of the side tables, sharing stories with the other patrons of the bar, until he seemed to have said the wrong thing. One of the men at the table went to hit the hooded man with a glass bottle, another turning to attack with a knife. Connor would have stopped them; if he was quick enough. He saw a sharp flash across the eye of the stranger, something quick but unmistakable— complete awareness. Complete knowledge of what he had caused. What he intended. The bottle was grabbed in one pale hand, taken, and then broken on the table so quickly the man once holding the object had no time to react. The hooded man kicked the edge of the other attackers chair, flipping him backward. With this added time the stranger spread his fingers through the first attacker's hair, pulling it down with a force that possibly cracked the table. One out. One more to go. He stood in a flash, kicked the knife out of the man's hand, the tool went flying across the floor, and he laid a foot on the man's chest.

By this time, Connor had already made it over to the three, and was just about to take matters into his own hands before the stranger pulled his hood back. In the dark lighting of the tavern, smirking brightly, stood Alfred. His hand rested on the table and he looked up towards Connor; and there was something about that smile that made Connor think of a gamble.

"Alfred, what are you doing now?" It seemed like a reoccurring question, but it was justified. This man, this _ridiculous_ man, was incredibly confusing. Alfred was about to answer, or at least offer another vague response before Corrine interrupted.

"You know who this is?" Corrine asked, looking back between the two. Alfred held out his hand to the innkeeper.

"Name's Alfred. I didn't have much a time for explanations after...that little truffle." Alfred voice was calm, but somehow Connor detected the slightest bit of urgency behind his words. Corrine stared at Alfred strangely, a familiar mix of confusion and irritation. The innkeeper remained silent, but shook his hand cautiously. Connor was going to ask a question, and probably a million others, before Alfred laid a hand on his back.

"I need to speak with you." His voice was lowered, words trailed with the threat of disaster. Connor looked at him, brown eyes locking with blue. And for a moment—if only for a moment— Connor felt a wave of the past sweep him away._ Storm clouds rolling over the hills. The rush of the river during summer. Sun speckled leaves across green forests._ Connor would have stayed in that image— stayed until he could no longer understand the feeling of consciousnesses. He felt his knees weaken; his arms fell numb. Connor hadn't even noticed where Alfred was leading him; but when he came back to reality, he found himself in the empty back room of the tavern. Alfred must have cleared the rest of the men out of that area. Alfred glanced at the chairs, but didn't offer Connor a seat. Which, Conner most likely wouldn't have taken anyway.

"You said you needed something." Connor crossed his arms, giving Alfred his full attention. Bhanuprasad tapped his fingers on the wooden table. If it was an act of nervousness, a signal, or just because he felt like doing so, Connor was not sure.

"There's going to be a battle in Cowpens." Alfred began, "I need you there, Connor. I can't do this without you." He looked at Connor, something not so far from hope and fear spread across his eyes. And Connor would never forget that. How terrible fear looked on this man's face, and how amazing a smile could be. It didn't take long for Connor to come to a decision. While he promised never to win another battle for the Patriots, there was something about Alfred that made him _want_ to. Made him want to wear Patriot colors and fly the banner. And the rational part of him was screaming; screaming no and screaming for answers. Screaming for retribution and screaming for bitterness. But Connor could find none of that when he looked at him. Found nothing but loyalty and kinship. And that, more than anything, was what the assassin wanted.

"I'll fight for you." The words came out of Connor's mouth before he even knew what to say. And he was glad they did. Alfred smiled brightly, fingertips now clasping at the table. And maybe it was the dark lighting of the tavern, but Connor would be damned if Alfred's smile didn't look like the sun.

* * *

**5. The fourth time was at the harbor in Boston.**

Connor had went back to his operations quickly after his time at the inn. He ran from guards and switched letters. He killed men and helped others. He started riots and planned ambushes. He protected those who could not protect themselves. And killed those who seeked to ruin others. He worked himself ragged, and the few times Connor got to relax were taken as a blessing. He kept his weapons cleaned, and a large amount of his time was spent repairing his clothing, as well as his weapons. It was time well spent.

While a sword dulled slower, a tomahawk felt _right_ in his hands. A sword was too foreign of an object; not foreign as in difficult to use, wield, or perfect. But foreign as that it wasn't what he stood for. It seemed like all these invading men, all the colonists who took his people's land wielded one. They were skilled in swords fights; they used them more often than guns or heavy machinery. He felt _wrong_ when one was in his hand. Like he was betraying his people, his morals, and his notions when he fought with one. Of course, sometimes there was no other choice. You use the weapons you have on hand, you use what is available. But his operations rarely ever lead to that; and he was glad for it.

He liked being fully prepared for things, or at least having some foresight as to what was to come. He got what he wanted, most of the time. He understood his missions; he understood what he had to do. And then there were times when nothing made sense, when his head would swim with thoughts, ideas, and actions. It would become so intense he became blinded; and that, was something Achilles had warned him greatly about. _You keep your eyes open. Or you'll never accomplish anything._ Connor did what he could to stay informed, and having connections all along the east coast was sure to aid him in that effort. He could never really get away from surprise, or shock. It came to him naturally, as it did now.

Connor had been far out in the sea not but an hour ago. Naval warfare now took much of his time along the coasts of the colonies, and while Connor enjoyed the forest far better than murky waters, he could do little complaining. The seamen were surprisingly fair people, and from all the stories of pirates he had heard, the assassin half expected to get robbed once or twice. It never happened. The crew stuck to their posts, working the ship orderly and well practiced. Very few ever looked towards him with an intent for pain; as Connor had come to notice. They were loyal, and the assassin was sure it came from Faulkner's ever growing rant on mutiny and what would become of you if you showed even an ounce of insubordination. Connor would be sure to thank him sometime for that.

The Aquila was preparing to dock after an easy mission. A couple of British raid ships had been stealing along the upper coast, making their way through towns and turning up trouble whenever they could spare the time. Connor decided it was worth the damages, especially to the people who had been robbed or killed during the raids. He had two more days before he would have to travel back to New York to see his comrade, who had been working to create meeting points for the patriots along the New York border. And considering the money had had saved for repairs, it would not be such a problem if the ship was to be damaged. He could support it. The workers included.

They had sailed back into port, Connor let Faulkner take the helm, and allowed himself to enjoy the slow pace. The salt licked up onto his skin, his raven hair felt damp. The clouds rolled along, dark and portraying bad weather. The assassin was glad they made it back in time; he knew from personal experience that sailing in a storm was never a good fate. He did however, enjoy the swift contrast of the graying sky, the dark storm clouds, and the constant beat of the waves. He let himself stare up, making a mental image. The moment would be short lived. The Aquila was moving calmly towards the docks, turning slightly to fit with the incoming deck. Connor turned away from the sky to look down at the port, hearing the loud noises of the city around him. He looked, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, until his eyes stopped on a particular figure, it's body facing straight at the sea.

Connor, even from this far (which really was only one ship down), noticed the the glowing hair. Noticed how it was only a few shades away from the sun, the curl, the feet's particular spread and angle. And felt a jolt in his legs, prepared for the ship to dock so he could run over and greet Alfred. The closer they came to the dock, the more Connor noticed how off this situation really was. Alfred's face was like stone, hard and unforgiving as he glared at another passing vessel. Hands balled to fists; jaw clenched; eyes dark like the clouds. Connor watched intently, feeling his own body tighten. He walked over to the side of the ship, hands gripping on the railing as he tried to get a better look. He had seen this look many times before. _Pain. Vengeance. Rage._

Connor felt something build in his chest. A weight that dragged him down like an anchor. He had also displayed this expression before, and he had never expected it to look so terrible, or threatening, or so intense. And he hated this look even more now; now that it was on Alfred and destroying that smile that could change lives. Connor followed Alfred's gaze the best he could, finding that it's cause was a ship. And at first Connor could not understand why so much rage could be pointed at such a simple thing, until he noticed the engravements. The shape of the vessel, and members aboard, and the flag flying high above. It was a British ship, and while it did not look military, it was certainly built to withstand a good amount of ammunition.

He checked again, following the line of sight more closely, until his eyes settled on a man at the stern. Dark blonde hair blowing with the wind of the ocean, standing in a military fashion, looking right back at Alfred. The man was young, his face clean shaven and hard. He was wearing a military uniform, the red contrasting with the dark grain of the ship. That had obviously been a factor. British. And while Connor knew he was no friend of the British, he was no friend of the Patriots either. And there was something else in that stare, something that told Connor this wasn't something that happened often; and that this British man was something important.

He watched, astonished, questioning. The ship hit the wood of the dock, and the crew drew out ropes. Connor snapped his eyes away, walking briskly over to the side edge of the ship, ready to run. He went to look back at Alfred, just to check to see if his eyes were still as violent as the storm clouds. He was quick enough to see the man turn away, disappearing into the crowd as quick as Connor had ever seen. The wind picked up again, spewing salty water into the air. Connor watched the city, eyes searching for that shining hair, which he already knew he probably wouldn't find.

* * *

**4. The fourth time was during The Battle of Cowpens.**

Connor had seen battles before. Killed and slaughtered before. But nothing compared to the momentum behind this one. It seemed like people were being killed in droves; in clumsy, unorganized attacks. People ran everywhere. They fell from their lines, scrambling along the soil until they were close enough to kill or be killed. You go left, or you go right, it really didn't matter. Blood fell around the soldiers like rain. Polluting the soil and fouling the air, and men screamed. Violent war cries. Dangerous commands from captains. And the last dying yells from men on the battle-field.

The assassin did what he could. He saved dozens that day. But dozens still died. Connor knew these men needed direction. The Patriots were loosing, and badly. They were against numbers that could have crippled a lesser army, and with captains still intent on destroying everything they could before they were brought down. He was drilled from his thoughts when another fleet of soldiers fired on his men. He didn't have enough time to call for cover. The entire front line was demolished, and some of the men ran. Not like it would have made a difference. Connor had tried to warn them._ You stay in line._ They'll pick you off alone if you don't. You die protecting or you die running. He screamed for fire, which did buy them some time. But not nearly what they needed to change the battle front.

He dropped several more men with his tomahawk, and brought down a few strays with his arrows. It helped save a some of his men; but did nothing for the overall health of the army. Connor screamed into the ashen air for the men to move behind the trees. They followed, moving quickly but still disorderly. Connor ran across the clearing, bringing two men down with his knife, yelling his order over again for men too far caught up in the battle. Most made it. Several were brought down by individual foot soldiers. Connor reached the trees, taking up the number of wounded.

"We wont hold the night, sir." The lieutenant cracked, face covered in mud. Connor swallowed, his throat was painfully dry.

"We need to organize. Once that is done the battle is ours." Connor cleaned his rifle. The men looked towards him, or at least while they weren't firing. Connor peered through the trees, trying to get a fix on where they needed to concentrate their forces. The entire field was covered in bloodied masses, soil was flung through the air. The soldiers were too spread out, and taking up to much ground. He couldn't find what he was looking for. Not in these conditions. What he did know, however, was that these trees weren't going to last for long. Bombardment from the nearby fleet would destroy their coverage before they could focus. So Connor did what he was trained to do; to kill. He ran forward, bringing down four more British soldiers. Across the stricken field a Patriot banner still waved in the darkened sky. If he could make it to that extra fleet, his men might have a better chance.

"Move! Regroup with the east side!" He yelled, and it seemed to have more affect on his men than anything else in this battle had. He felt life return to their stances; but the ease of the battle was not yet reached. He ran with them, killing and leading. Men who were once so lively the night before, drinking and singing, were now lying dead in the grass, their blood spilling over the flowers. He rushed forward, saving one solider from a hessian by slitting his throat. It was another thing Connor would never forget. Men made it out to be so simple. You cut the skin. Blood pours out and you move on. What they didn't say, however, was how truly vile it was. The victim always made a deep, scratching gurgle in the back of his throat, neck muscles tightening then falling slack in the matter of seconds. Hot blood spilling over your hands as you tried to continue on. It was, and probably always will be, Connor's least likeable way of murder. But he had no choice. Not now. Not while other lives were at stake.

He twisted his way through, reaching the other group of Patriots and sharing information with the captain of that fleet. The south section had been lost. But the north had been gained. They were right back to where they had started. And then men were tiring. They were short on supplies, but then again, so were the British. The soldiers had little time to spare, and in a few moments the Connor was back in the fight. Mud covered his boots, blood soaked into his uniform. And yet his fingers still itched. Connor made his way to the drop off, where the main concentration of forces was— the focal point of the entire battle. The one thing that had to be protected. He brought down six men, dragging his weapon across the invading lines until he could no longer breathe. He fell into the ditch, fingers sprang up to clutch at his jacket. The men already there kept him on his feet, ducking Connor's head under the ditch lining.

The assassin would never get a chance to thank them after the battle was over. Connor steadied himself, reaching his hand into his pocket to pull out a pouch of gunpowder. He reloaded, lifting his gun up and killing the closest enemies he could see, and let his head drop back into the protective barring of the ditch. He couldn't remember how many times he did this._ Fire. Duck. Reload. Repeat. Fire. Duck. Reload. Repeat._ Connor couldn't feel his fingers by the time he could rest longer than a heart beat. He didn't know how long the Patriots would hold. He didn't know how long the British were going to press. He didn't know much of anything at this point. His gun felt abnormally heavy, and his ears ringed with battle shock.

Connor was out of bullets; and he didn't dare take any from the soldiers near him. They would need the pouches much more then he would. The assassin holstered his gun with shaking fingers, and hauled himself up the muddy slope of the ditch. Connor was only out for a second, only a target for a single _second_, before he felt something hard knock into him. The air was rushed out from his lungs, and a cry rang out as he fell back into the mud. Hot, wet blood soaked onto his skin. His chest burned, he couldn't_ breathe_. It was like something was laying on his che— a soldier was over top of him, head buried into Connor's clothing, taking raged unsteady breaths. Hands clutching at the soil, the man let out a muffled grunt of pain. And for once in a long time, Connor's mind drew a blank. _Someone had taken the bullet for him._ Those words ran in his head as he struggled to control his own breathing. His heart ached painfully, from either the weight of the man or from the knowledge of being saved.

Connor's fingers still shaked as he raised the man off him with strength he wasn't aware he still had. Blood was pouring from the entry wound, and Connor knew it was most likely fatal. He didn't understand how, why, anyone would do this for him. Connor lifted the man's head, and at what he found, he was sure he would never breathe again. Alfred was _bleeding on him. Alfred had taken a bullet for him_. And suddenly Connor's hands were working faster than his mind could handle. He ripped open the uniform, heart racing against what he knew would be the death of the most loyal man he had even met. His bloody fingers reached for his knife, gunshots still rang in his ears._ Bhanuprasad's cry still rang in his ears._

He didn't have the right materials. He knew he couldn't save him; but Connor would try. He wouldn't accept this. He couldn't accept this. And images flashed across his eyes as he stuck the knife on Alfred's skin. _His mother. Kanen'to:kon. Achilles._ He didn't save him. He had to save Bhanuprasad. If it was the last thing he did in his entire life, he had to save him. Connor struggled to pull the bullet out, and it made matters worse when Alfred's eyes opened and screamed loud enough to bust eardrums.

"You took a bullet, but your not dead yet._ Alfred you are not dead yet._" Connor's voice was hard. Desperate and on the verge of grieving. Alfred's hands reached up onto the assassin's uniform, tearing the fabric almost effortlessly in pain. Connor worked fast, as fast as he could, but a bullet that hit bone was never an easy thing to dig back up. He managed to, as soon as Alfred's screams became common. The bullet was thrown over the assassin's shoulder, and he ripped his own jacket to use as a substitution for gauze.

The blood was going to soak through in a matter of minutes, and Connor's sloppy surgeon work was nothing compared to what a real doctor could do. If Alfred wasn't taken to a doctor, if he wasn't taken off the battle field, then the wound would be infected. He wouldn't survive that. Connor picked Bhanuprasad up, men ignored them, too busy firing to care about a wounded man. He checked this time before climbing out of the ditch, running to the coverage of the trees. They had been ignored once the men moved to the east. Alfred's eyes opened again, blue that had lost none of it potency; but his skin was pale. Far too pale for comfort.

Alfred struggled in Connor's arms, almost falling twice before they reached the trees. Bhanuprasad fell from Conner's hands, reaching up to grasp at his chest. Checking his injuries, Connor assumed. Seeing how long he had to live. And yet, the assassin noticed no concern on the young man's face. The enormity of what had just happened crashed into him, dropping Connor to his knees. He saved him. Saved him for now. People didn't survive wounds like that in the middle of a battle. Alfred wouldn't survive.

"You didn't have to do that," Connor said, voice low and pained. Alfred laid a hand on his shoulder, smiling despite how much agony Connor knew he was in. Alfred's face continued to pale.

"You'd do the same for me." Alfred responded; his voice strangely steady. Connor shook his head, full of disbelief and awe. Alfred smiled at him, dazzling and replacing everything else around them. And Connor couldn't help but smile too. If only a little.

* * *

**5. The fifth time was in the Patriot camp outside of Boston; where the army was supposed to regroup after the battle.**

Connor had to leave Bhanuprasad behind during the fight. While he wanted nothing more than to stay with him, to protect him from the inevitable bloodshed, he knew that he couldn't. The battle had not been won. And he knew that he needed to fight with them. He had initially tried to stay with Alfred, at least long enough to get him to a safer place, but it proved to be a worthless effort. They were easy targets, and were attacked too many times for anyplace to really be a safe area. So Connor did the only thing left to do, and climbed Alfred up into the trees. He left him covered in branches, smearing mud on Alfred's wound to halt the blood and to aid as camouflage. Alfred smiled at him the whole time, leaning against the tree branches like he was at home.

Once Connor was sure Alfred would be safe at least for a little while, he lept down, his fingers nearly dancing around the tomahawk. Bhanuprasad smiled again, which seemed to take away all the sulfur, all the blood, and all the death around them. And Connor was perfectly content in staying there, gazing up at that smile forever. He was drawn back by the sound of men screaming towards him. He killed them in a matter of minutes, his tomahawk feeling complete in his hands. Connor continued on, back to where he started in the beginning. Ordering; killing; saving. It felt_ right,_ somehow. Protecting but killing. Destroying but creating. It seemed natural.

And the assassin might have lost himself somewhere in that fight. He didn't understand what he did during most of it, only that when he came back to real awareness he was surrounded by Patriot officers. And they were cheering. And it took Connor another moment to realize they had won, and the British were retreating. As well as that someone had grabbed him to his feet, throwing an arm around his shoulder and happily leading him back to their camp for long awaited rest. The assassin followed, at first, before remembering Alfred. Before remembering that the man who saved his life was stowed up in a tree somewhere, covered in mud, with a chest wound. He snapped himself away from the rejoicing crowd, running with sore legs to the nearest batch of trees. And he hoped he would find Alfred there, smiling down at him with a gun in his hand. Instead all he found was empty branches. He ran to the next, and his hopes were raised higher, but fell. He didn't see a single bundle of wheat hair.

He checked the remaining trees, climbing the last few just to be sure. Bhanuprasad was nowhere in sight. Connor felt his knees shudder, stumbling slightly._ He couldn't find him. _Connor didn't know what to do at this point. His entire body felt numb, with exhaustion and emotional pain, and he didn't know where to go. He didn't know how he could ever move on when the man who saved him possibly died for him. And knowing that Connor could have dragged him away from that battle, made sure that he received help and wasn't in danger, adding such guilt to his chest that Connor felt like he was being buried. If he had tried harder, if he had just tried a little_ harder_, than Alfred would be sitting somewhere in a medical base laughing and _happy_. Connor felt the captain come behind him, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"We need to go, lad." The man's voice, which was meant to be reassuring, was only deathly unnerving. Connor nodded, turning away from the trees and allowed himself to be taken to the camp. The Captain spoke softly, trying to explain to Connor that there was always a chance the boy lived. But those words never reached the assassin's ears. By the time they reached the camp, Connor's eyelids felt incredibly heavy. Men lit lanterns to set around the post, and there were several campfires around the tents. Supplies had been piled in the back, and men went in a line to fetch the small amount of food they were given. Most brought out tiny jugs of ale, and it was a little bit of home in the gloom of the camp. They gathered around the fires, moth bitten blankets were taken from their tents, and the soldiers did their best to chase away the bitterness of the after-battle.

Connor could not join them. He could barely hold his head up, and while he's legs yelled for rest, his mind yelled for knowledge. He passed the fires, which brought strange glances from the men around him. An assassin who fought longer than any of them was still up and walking, and worse yet, still looking for a boy who couldn't be found. Connor slowly made his way around the posts, looking for a bundle of blonde hair or a dark hood. He must have made four rounds without a single thing catching his eye.

"Have you found him yet?" The captain came behind him again, grabbing his arm.

"I only have the medical tent left to check." That should have been the first place to go, and the most obvious. But Connor had been dreading walking into that tent. He would find bodies around the back, piled high from the staggering amount of the those wounded who he just handed to glance at. He feared that he would have to check the bodies, looking through the layers of flesh until he came across Alfred, lying amoungst the fallen. He smelt anesthetics before he even opened the flap, and the scent churned his stomach. It took all of his strength not to fall right before the doctor. A hand rushed out to catch him before he fell completely, pulling him over to the far side of the tent, resting his back against a pile of medical supplies.

"Matt, get some of that salve for me, please." Connor tried to open his eyes; tried to see the face behind that comforting voice. He couldn't get the darkness to repel.

—

When Connor woke he was draped along the far end of the medical tent, his body left to lay within thin blankets and a torn jacket to support his head. His boots had been removed, he assumed to dry out in the night air and morning sun. The assassin sighed in exhaustion; sore limbs paired with sleep deprivation was as bad a combination as any. His eyes glazed up at the roof of the tent, eyes slightly burning from the sudden blast of sunlight.

The blankets wired themselves around his legs, trapping his ankles in place when he tried to move. Something told him it was a desired effect. He tiredly reached his hands down, working to untie the sheets. He was nearly free to move before, who he suspected to be the doctor, wandered in, a steaming bowl of soup in his hands. Connor would always remember that strange curl of hair, the light bouncing off that blonde hair. Connor snapped his eyes up; seeing the face of the doctor; and Alfred. He struggled quickly with the blankets now, his hands working so quickly that he was sure he did more harm than good. He cleared his throat, grumbling slightly from the tightening sheets.

"Oh, sir, let me help you with those." Alfred's voice was humble, and much softer than Connor remembered. The assassin's eyes snapped upwards again, taking in every detail of the man who saved his life. He looked healthy, a good color resided in his cheeks. He was wearing a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and was surprisingly clean after everything he had been through. Maybe there was a river near by. His hair had the same glow, shining underneath the muffled rays of the sun. It looked...off, somehow. Slightly darker. And the small curl Bhanuprasad always did seem to have was longer, falling strangely down the man's hair instead of sticking up rebelliously. Connor knew something was different; and too different for it to mean nothing.

Alfred (possibly not) quickly sat the bowl down on a crate of medical supplies, walking over to Connor and reached his hands down to detangle the blankets from his ankles. Connor was going to study this Alfred more closely, checking, making sure that this was him. Or he was until his mind was met with a new experience altogether. The man had come close, and it hit the assassin's senses like a punch to the throat._ Graceful peaks rising high in the morning sun. Shifting winds moving clear flowing snow across valleys. Pine trees whispering in spring's wake._ He felt shivers run down his arms, his throat clenching. He tilted away, still feeling the breeze of the forest ghost along his skin. This man (definitely not Alfred) seemed to notice what happened, and as soon as he freed Connor, repelled his hands as fast as possible.

"That should be better." His voice said kindly, shuffling over to the medical crate again as the assassin slowly moved to his feet. Connor breathed out, a calming exercise that had actually helped more than he ever thought possible. He looked over at the doctor, now clearly seeing the differences from him and Bhanuprasad. He wished he hadn't. That would mean Alfred was standing right before him, and not left in a ditch somewhere, rotting in the warming sun. Connor felt sick at the very thought. They shared silence; the only actual noise being made was the ever loud soldiers outside the tent, clambering around the camp doing their routine tasks, their friendly banter filled the empty space. Connor felt strength returning slowly, as he stretched his arms. The assassin stood, rolling his shoulders as he took steps towards the other side of the tent, ready to continue his search. He didn't get far.

"My brother says you saved his life." The doctor said before Connor could get past him, his violet eyes stopped the assassin from taking a further step. Connor didn't hold this at any surprise; he had saved several men that day. Or at least the ones he could make it to. He was about to deem it as a coincidence, until he added the doctor's strange resemblance to Alfred along into the situation.

"And who is your brother?" Connor already had a good idea, but there was a distinct lingering doubt. But he hoped with every last inch of power he held, that he was right. The assassin looked directly at the doctor now, unnerved at how serene the man's face seemed. The doctor smiled, smooth and small. It looked like the rush of waters to Connor; and maybe it was. The man went to respond, until the tent flap opened.

"Matt, they're bringing another batch in soon. They found them out near the west bo—" Alfred stopped talking when he fully entered, seeing Connor standing finally. He rushed over, patting the assassin on the back joyfully. Connor could barely comprehend who was standing in front of him.

"Look who decided to wake up!" Alfred patted him a little too heartily, and if Connor was not overfilling with relief, shock, and a multitude of other emotions, he would have questioned it. Connor snapped back, his hand moving before he could stop himself to grasp at one of Alfred's shoulders. Just to check; to_ feel_. To know that this wasn't some fever induced dream and this was_ real_. He felt rough fabric move underneath his fingers, and Alfred's warmth hit his skin, and Connor just knew then that this wasn't a dream. That Alfred was _alive._

"How are you up and moving? You were shot last night!" Connor's voice was loud and harsh. The grip on Alfred's shoulder increased. And Connor expected a reply without comforting results; but instead was gifted the rare sight of that smile. The smile the assassin had seen on Alfred only once before, the small, half-sided smirk that had started this whole ordeal. Achilles's smile. It halted all of Connor's previous anger.

"Matt here is a great doctor," Alfred point at his brother," and besides, I'm..a pretty fast healer." Connor stared at him with a ludicrous expression, eyes darting over Alfred's body, checking for further injury. He didn't understand how the bastard was still alive, or how he was moving, and laughing, and _enjoying_ this.

"You don't waste any time, do you Alfred?" The doctor, whom Alfred had so informally called 'Matt', chuckled lightly, like wind passing through the trees. He sat the bowl on a different crate, pulling bandages and anesthetics out for the incoming soldiers. Connor scoffed loudly at the doctor's words, letting his hand drop. Which brought a light laugh out of Alfred, and also the rolling of eyes.

"You both know I never waste time." There was hint of sarcasm in Alfred's voice, which made Connor think of Achilles's sly comments that he had made so often. Alfred looked back over to Connor, licking his lips lightly.

"Come on. I think I can russle up some good food," Alfred waved his hand, "None of that disgusting slop for the hero of the battle." Connor shook his head, a smile forcing it's way on to his face as he followed Alfred out of the tent (but not before he thanked the doctor for all his help). And hours later; after they had eaten and talked, they were sitting calmly down by the fire. Alfred's voice ran like the cold night air, and with his smile lighting up the darkness, Connor felt like he had just tasted sunshine.

* * *

**Notes:**

**- This isn't entirely accurate, to be honest. I tried my best to work with Connor's character, as well as too portray Alfred as I see him. I understand that many people will not enjoy that, but that's fine.**

**-My only really big problem with this story is The Battle of Cowpens. I wrote the battle scene before I searched for a name, which I really shouldn't have done. If my information is correct, The Battle of Cowpends was on October 14, 1780. It was a huge win for the Patriots. Which I did have happen. The battle was taken in place in Cowpens, South Carolina. I made it rainy, which I don't think was the actual fighting weather the real soldiers went through. Nor do I believe there was ever a ditch involved.**

**-The name Bhanuprasad is of Mohawkan origin, and means '_gift of sun.'_**


End file.
